Waiting To Escape
by Cortana Bennet
Summary: One touch stopped her, one word had her sitting back down, and one question changed her life. A/U


Hermione stared at her reflection for just a moment too long. In that tiny expanse of time, she saw everything she did not want to see: longing, fear, regret. Love. She winced, her eyes squinting together, her shoulders drawing upward as she turned from the mirror. It was painful to see herself, for love had never been the intent or the reason for this...thing. All she had wanted was a release, a release of long pent-up emotions, created by him, and yet, after all this time, here she was, still bursting at the seams with them. But now with an added component.

She smoothed her hair down, though there was no need. The long, shiny, chestnut-colored tresses hung straight down her back, no frizz in sight, looking nothing like it had in school or, for that matter, two hours prior. She indulged in an expensive potion in order to tame her dizzying mess of hair. It worked like magic. She couldn't help but chuckle wryly at her childishness.

But she did it for him. So often being ridiculed about her hair, she assumed he preferred it in its current state. Hermione decided to look once more in the full-length mirror that stood in the corner of her bedroom. Its tarnished silver frame dully captured the sun shining in from the window, in no way blinding her, and for a moment, she wondered if the mirror was mocking her.

She was no fierce beauty, but everything she did was for him. Every stroke of her makeup brush, every piece of clothing she wore when she met him, every charm uttered that she hoped enhanced her lacking looks. And yet, all she saw in the mirror was desperation, something to be pitied. Nothing blinding.

Oh, Hermione was well aware that she could turn heads. She had a unique look, and when she was sure of herself, it exuded outwardly. But next to him, she wondered what else she could do to be noticed, appreciated…loved, by him.

Her small hands ran over her silky dress, brushing out non-existent creases and removing invisible lint. She adjusted her breasts in her bra, creating more cleavage, knowing he would enjoy seeing it. The knee-length red and silver dress had a plunging neckline, fitted under her breasts, and its long flowing sleeves draped over her shoulders and arms beautifully. She loved it, and it was one of his favorites, he had said. It was one of the rare times he commented on her clothing, and she frantically grasped at that morsel, wearing the dress every so often, hoping, praying that it may change the course of their relationship. Typical Hermione would have scoffed at the idea…The Hermione that came out every Friday made wishes on stars.

She looked down at her feet and crinkled her nose at her shoes, not liking the red satin sandals, but the color matched her dress, and the three-and-a-half inch heels made her legs look oh so long. Jewelry nonexistent, except large silver hoops in her ears and a small, delicate gold cross her mother had given Hermione when she turned seven. She had never replaced the chain, therefore making it more like a choker, hugging her neck tightly, but she never took it off. He had once asked about it, and she said simply that it was a present from her mother. He never mentioned it again, but she always saw him look for it, his piercing eyes on her neck, before he looked at her face, with a veiled expression. She thought he must dislike it. But it was the one change she would not make for him.

Tired of looking at herself, weary of her own painful scrutiny, she quickly turned and picked her clutch up off the bed along with a thin black wool wrap. She draped it over her arms and walked out of her small flat, locking the door behind her, preferring to walk a bit before Apparating to a point near the restaurant. It was a Muggle one, ironically enough, and through some strange alignment of the stars, it was the one of the favorite hangouts of her peers. It had started after one of the post-war Ministry events, one many of her classmates had attended, and the group included people she had not associated with—or thought would ever associate with her—Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, to name a few.

The young fighters from the war, bored with the droning on by wizards with names they could not recall and contributions that appeared nonexistent, had left as soon as etiquette allowed and almost ran to the nearest drinking establishment. That happened to be a bar inside a restaurant, an upscale one at that, and, to top it off, a Muggle one.

Apparently, no one in the group had been fazed by this, nor had they been concerned that a certain Seamus Finnigan had sat next to Blaise Zabini, both drinking Guinnesses. Hermione looked at it this way: you fight long enough together, for the same thing, then, even if your backgrounds and beliefs are different, you inevitably become allies, if not friends.

And so began their Friday night ritual gathering. And the occasional Sunday afternoon meet up. The bartenders knew them, they all got along reasonably well, and they were young. It was what they were supposed to do. And, as Ginny had once flippantly said, it was a reason for the girls to get dressed up and the boys to have something better than jeans and a jumper to look at.

The only kink in the arrangement was the long, lean, tow-headed man, one Draco Malfoy. Hermione shivered as she thought of him, with his piercing grey eyes and poised, graceful hands. And the exception to Hermione's rule about the war and the ties that bind. It was not that he was hostile to the others, or even the other way around, though Ron still had a difficult time with Draco. Ron typically stayed on the other side of the bar and left Draco to his solitary table.

And that was what made the whole thing so strange. Draco had continued to show up, week after week, with no apparent desire to converse, or engage, with anyone. His desire, apparently, was to drink his whiskey, getting tight on tumbler after tumbler of the fiery spirit.

Hermione unconsciously slowed as she neared the bar. She, like always, was a bundle of emotions, all nerves and excitement, distressed and giddy, high and low, all at the same time. She had felt compelled to talk to him, since no one else would, and certainly, _he_ had not been seeking anyone out. Every Friday night, after about an hour, she went and sat at his table and talked, coming to know he would rarely return a response. Eventually, she would leave him to his whiskey, and the next time she turned around, he would be gone.

Initially, his lack of response to her presence or words had bothered Hermione more than if he had called her a Mudblood. Over time, she accepted it as who he was—at least, who he was in this bar, with these people. He had confused her, and as was her way, Hermione Granger had been determined to figure him out. She told herself that it had nothing to do with the way her body went tingly every time he roamed her face, and then her body, with his bright eyes.

Then one Friday, she had been late, so late she had almost not come, and he'd been more pissed than usual. She'd stayed after everyone left, just sitting at the table with him. She had run her fingers over the small knick on the tabletop a million times (or so it seemed), waiting for something. And then, as she swung her legs to the side to stand, to leave the painful experience of pretending to not watch him watch her, he had grabbed her hand. He had never so willingly touched her before, and she had unwittingly sucked in her breath at the contact. Thinking back on that moment, it was silly that it should have caused such a schoolgirlish reaction from her, but that electric ripple through her body was exactly what had been elicited. And fortunately, or not, it still happened.

He'd asked her to stay, she'd asked why, and then he'd kissed her like she had never before been kissed.

One touch had stopped her, one word had put her back in her chair, and one question had changed her life. For better, for worse, Hermione was never quite sure. What she _was_ sure about was what she wanted: more than a few hours with the one person she had come to care for more than she had expected.

And as she stood outside the restaurant, she closed her eyes briefly, seeing herself in her mind and knowing she had done all she could. Her soft whisper sounded like a prayer.

"I wish it was enough."

* * *

Draco Malfoy awoke to a throbbing head, the sunlight pouring in the window, smiling brightly at his pain. He could have easily closed the shades with a flick of his hand but left them as they were, feeling as if he deserved it all. Each ray of light that illuminated his flawless features mocked the broken man within.

He stretched, drawing his arm over the twisted sheets, and winced, remembering the evening, the night before. It always started the same, ended the same. And the morning-after never failed to provide him with a bright and bubbling day, taunting him. After a night like the last, the sun and its brilliance should have been an echo of his emotions, but all he could feel was longing and the beginnings of a cool numbness.

Hermione had arrived immaculate as always, and he knew, as he had for months, that her appearance was for him and him alone. She attempted to recreate herself into what she believed he wanted. She could have shown up in one of McGonagall's frumpy robes, and he would still have taken her home. But he never told her that. Instead, he told her nothing, and Hermione learned to read his facial expressions and body language better than anyone else he knew. Perhaps that was because he hardly spoke to her. There was no need. He had nothing of value to say.

Still, she pinched and pulled, nicked and plucked, making small changes to her appearance—nothing drastic, but Draco noticed. He noticed everything about her, and it was the details that she didn't change that he enjoyed the most. Her always-forgotten lipstick, which she hastily applied staring into the mirror behind the bar. Her small gold cross that she never forgot to wear, that she fingered when she was nervous, which, early on, was almost always. Her short, perfectly clipped fingernails that were always naked and tapped against her teeth when she was in thought.

Draco longed to tell her that he noticed these things, that he noticed every tiny detail about her and liked each of them, but he didn't. Perhaps he thought she already knew, for she noticed just as much as he did. It was one of the things he liked about her: her quick mind. But perhaps he did not want her to take it the wrong way and think he actually…cared.

What irony. Of course he cared. He always had, at least a little. Draco knew why she had approached his table and sought him out initially: curiosity and the irrepressible desire to solve a puzzle. What he didn't understand was why she kept coming back, why she went home with him, and why she kept doing it, week after week.

Draco knew why he wanted her. He had spent months and months with her during the war without really knowing her. Most of his time had been spent with an initially begrudging Potter and an acerbic Moody, but Hermione had always been at least in the background, never far from Potter's side. He had learned she was level-headed and smart but not necessarily as book-smart as he had always assumed. It was frightening the information she could regurgitate, almost verbatim, but seeing most people's glassy-eyed expressions, she could just as quickly apply her knowledge to situations and "dumb it down" for the less than adept.

And he liked that about her. He stopped seeing her as a know-it-all—though she was, immensely—instead, realized she would always come across that way next to the dim Potter and Weasley. But after all that time, seeing her so differently, Draco realized he still didn't know her. It wasn't until he was dragged to that bar by his acquaintances and she sat at his table and just started talking with few hesitations that he began to know who she really was, and that was when the caring began.

All week, he looked forward to those few hours on Friday night that she would tell him about her patients and the newest book she bought and the pottery class she decided to take on a whim. Draco began living his life in anticipation of Hermione's, as twisted as it sounded. But Draco was nearly one hundred percent sure he was as twisted as people came. He accepted it and was determined to let his bizarre fascination with this witch continue.

He knew exactly why he had kissed her…bloody whiskey. Every Friday, he sat in that damn bar, with all her damn friends—and his old friends—and got sloshed. And every Friday, she sat with him, talking about herself, her job, what she was reading, her friends, anything. Sometimes she asked questions, but rarely did she expect him to answer.

So, he just stared at her as she talked, and in the beginning, she blushed under his gaze. Over time, she appeared to no longer notice. Draco was intrigued by her. She was Muggle-born and yet absolutely brilliant…at more than just magic. Her best friend was Harry Potter, and yet, she was sitting at his table, talking to him. And she was tough as nails, a fighter, but, as he would later find out, she was also soft and sweet and supple.

That night, the night he had kissed her, she hadn't been there, and the hope for the conversation he had been looking forward to for days had evaporated in front of his eyes, so he had gotten angry, and he had gotten drunk. And then, as he was becoming angry at himself for being angry at her, she had walked in the door, out of breath and blowsy and just…beautiful. He had deflated and then inflated at the same time, and that's when he had known he would kiss Hermione Granger that night.

Her goodness even came through in the kiss, all tentative and sweet and unsure. And after their first night together, she made him feel good, too. Draco wanted to bask in it. Every night with her filled an emptiness, if only momentarily. She was his perfect foil, light and pure where he was dark and tainted. He tried not to think that he was sullying her perfection and instead thought of how perhaps she was coating him with some of her goodness, every time she touched him.

He had taken Hermione home that night and every Friday after that. Draco was well aware that their friends—well, her friends—knew that the dynamic between Hermione and him had changed, drastically. There were a few murmurs, some sideway looks, all of which he either ignored or addressed by pointedly staring back. He couldn't care less what people thought—or said, for that matter. And it all had little to no use to him, and so he paid it no mind.

Hermione appeared more bothered by it than he, but still, she came each week and left with him. He knew she wanted more, but she never begged. She never even asked. She gave everything she had, accepted everything he offered, and he took everything he wanted, and all of that amounted to fifty-two nights a year, nothing more, nothing less.

They were inseparable throughout the night, using hands and mouths and eyes to memorize each other, but she was always gone before he awoke. She always kissed him one last time before he fell asleep, or passed out, pouring everything into that kiss. And he let her, restraining himself, becoming non-responsive. She seemed to know, to understand, that it was his way to tell her not to stay. The expression on her face before he fell asleep said it all: she knew that when she was gone, he wouldn't miss her.

Staring down at the kitchen table, which gave him no response besides stony silence, he gave a bitter laugh. At first, Draco didn't miss her because he wouldn't allow himself to. He immersed himself in everything else that he was and wanted to be. But during those moments when he was busy attempting to redeem himself, she would creep in, and his thoughts would beg him to let her have a stab at his redemption. And when he just wanted to enjoy the silence, with no curses, no screams, no hate, she would wiggle in, and he would miss her quiet but strong voice. So with every passing Saturday morning, he did not miss her. He ached for her. And he tortured himself by allowing himself one night with the woman he began to yearn for, never fulfilling his concealed longings for more.

He did not deserve more, but she did. And he did not think he had anymore to give.

* * *

Hermione trotted toward the restaurant, annoyed that she was late but not why she was late. There had been a mandatory dinner for all Department Head Healers, a wine and dine event to secure donations and endowments for the upcoming year. Hermione hated those things, but money made the world go round, and her non-profit branch of St. Mungo's required a year's worth of funds at any given time to stay operational.

And little Abigail, not only orphaned by the war but also suffering from an unknown curse courtesy of the war, who Hermione went back to the hospital to see after the dinner, needed her Healer to make every effort to get as much money as she could from potential donors and sponsors. It was Abigail who had held Hermione up, whose hand she had held, verbally soothing her through tremors that no potion, no wandwork, had been able to eliminate or decrease.

She swiped at her wet eyes with the back of her hand, worried for Abby, angry at the war, nervous about Draco, fretted about her clothes and hair, and then became angry at herself for being so shallow. She took a deep breath as she opened the door to the restaurant and purposely slowed her gait as she moved toward the bar area, trying to calm her emotions. As she entered, she knew immediately Draco was not there, and tears threatened to fall again. She could sense it, as stupid as it sounded, and a glance at the table where he always sat only confirmed it. He would not have sat anywhere else for he did not sit anywhere else, so, for reasons unknown to her, he was not there.

She couldn't help but be bothered by it as she slid onto a barstool next to Theo. Draco was not the only one with particularities. Theodore always sat at the bar. In fact, almost everyone that came had their own spots, typical beverage, consistent drink patterns, and customary actions.

It was no surprise that Theo, reserved as he was, wanted nothing to do with tables, small or large, that were out in the open. The bar provided some anonymity, his back against the group at large, only needing to talk to one person, perhaps two, at any given time. Unless of course, you counted the time the group, prompted by a particularly rowdy George and Lee, had gathered around behind Theo at the bar, ready to engage in some typical Weasley teasing. That commotion had almost forced Theo to pull out his wand and hex them all to the moon, but Hermione and Neville had diffused the situation in time. No one gathered behind Theo like that anymore.

She looked around the room, sipping on the champagne brought to her by their usual barkeep. The bubbles filled her head, making her smile unconsciously. She only saw a few from the normal group, but it was early, at least for most of her friends. Just like she and Theo were punctual down to the second, most of the group was of the "fashionably late" variety. Or, in Ron's case, showed up whenever hunger and thirst struck. Everyone had their peculiarities.

Draco was no different. Like Theo, he was a recluse of sorts, but instead of hiding away, he sat smack-dab in the middle of the room at a small table for three or four and stared holes into his drink. No one approached him, not even his former Slytherin friends, except for Hermione and, on occasion, Harry. That one always surprised Hermione, but what surprised her even more was that Draco actually spoke when Harry sat down. She had once asked Harry what they talked about, and he shrugged and, in typical male fashion, just said, "Stuff."

Hermione suspected the two had become something beyond acquaintances but not quite friends. But Draco appeared to be friends with no one, and it would have surprised her greatly if Harry had been his first real friend. She had often hoped that that could be what she would become; after all, they were lovers, why couldn't they be friends? She knew intimate details of his life, such as the side of the bed that he slept on, the spot on his side that made him grin automatically, before he tucked it away again, the way he folded his clothes—even if it was with magic—before he fell asleep, the nightmares that awoke her, not him, from sleep, but she did not know him.

She took every little bit she learned about him and stored it away in a little keepsake box in her heart, these small pieces being all she knew of him. She wanted to know the particulars that she knew about all her other friends—what movie Harry saw at the cinema on Sundays, Ron's current favorite take-away restaurant, Hannah's desire to quit her job as an accountant and write a romance novel, Ginny's predilection for adopting stray creatures.

She wondered what it would be like to actually wake up with Draco and not before him, to eat a meal with him, to find out about what he did all week before Friday night, to feel loved for more than three hours at a time. There was no doubt in her mind that during the brief time they were together, she did feel cared for and valued, but with no substance before or after their intimacy, she knew it had to be a physical thing. He loved her body, but did he care for anything else?

Hermione felt sure there was a positive emotion besides lust in Draco, in regards to her, but she was not sure it would be something she would ever experience. There was something holding him back, and Hermione, as Gryffindor as she was, was not brave enough to broach such a sensitive subject. She could honestly say she did not want to lose the little she had of him. She lost her heart to him, but at least she kept it in sight.

She turned in her chair, her back to the bar counter, as Theo and Amanda, a perky, blonde American, were involved in their own conversation. She saw Ginny and Luna enter, still close friends, having been brought together after their sixth year at Hogwarts. Ginny was chatting busily while Luna smiled, somewhat absently, to the person behind them, who had held the door open for them.

Hermione rose to walk over and greet them but stopped when she noticed it was Draco who was behind them. He immediately caught her eye, and for a moment, she was sure he was going to come to her. She saw an unfamiliar, but not unknown, look in his eyes, and she tilted her head, giving him a small, questioning smile.

He just continued to stare at her, as if he wasn't sure who she was, and her smile wavered, fearing his rejection. Then, he actually started to smile, one corner of his mouth moving minutely upward, slowly, as if fighting gravity. But then it was gone, and he was walking toward his table, abruptly sitting down, with his back to her, leaving her feeling cold and alone, though in a bar full of friends.

Hermione blinked away the hurt and shook it off, literally, before moving to Ginny and Luna. She knew that although her friends had stopped questioning her relationship with Draco—and this was only after a thorough dressing down from her about keeping their noses where they belonged, out of other people's business—they had not stopped their wariness of the man that Hermione had come to care for. Ginny and Luna were good friends, and they would be displeased to see her unhappy.

Determined to enjoy her friends and her night out, she walked toward the two women, smiling genuinely as she watched Luna gesture to something unseen and Ginny, with one eyebrow raised, laugh in friendly amusement.

Hermione took a few brief seconds to wish these moments of lightness could include Draco, but it was the rational side of her that told her that that particular fantasy was something for her dreams. Unfortunately, that rational, logical side of her appeared to go into hiding where Draco was concerned. And it could not stop her heart from believing that dreams could come true.

* * *

Draco sat with his whiskey, sipping it slowly, wishing he could transfigure the ice into rocks, to reflect what the drink was actually called. Those Muggles knew their alcohol, he had to give them that, and those Americans had figured out the whiskey bourbon. However, he hated watered-down whiskey and partially yearned for his normal state of mind, which would have had him pounding the drink faster than condensation could appear on the tumbler.

Given his day, he should have knocked back several already. He was so angry at his father, and that pissed him off more. His father, dead for many years, should not have any hold on his life anymore. But, when you run your deceased father's companies, there was little means of avoiding him.

Instead, it had been forty-five minutes, and he was still on his first drink, splitting his time between staring at the brunette wandering around the bar and thinking about her. He had been immobilized when he first walked in and saw her. The girl in front of him was Hermione, the real Hermione, not the made-up one that typically appeared each Friday night. Not that he necessarily had a problem with that one. Once she started talking, he knew it was her, and that delicate little necklace was the only reminder he needed that everything else was just Hermione playing dress-up.

Tonight was different. She still had on her robes from the hospital, opened to reveal a black dress, collared, with buttons open, revealing little, tight at the waist, with flat pockets on either side of her hips, which she currently had one hand in. It was straight around her legs, hitting the top of her knee, and she had black pumps with a peep toe. She looked professional and well-kempt and beautiful…all Hermione. Her hair was in its normal state of chaotic curls but pulled off her face in a high ponytail, and she wore her simple cross.

His heart felt full looking at her, knowing this was who she was. He was staring again, and she caught him, looking him straight in the eye and mouthing, "What?"

He said nothing and immediately looked down at his drink.

When he looked up again, she was standing in front of him.

"What is wrong?"

The question was straight-forward, and although her voice was hesitant, her stance said she was not backing down.

He just stared at her.

"Honestly Draco, what is your problem? I know I look less than stellar, but there is no reason to be so rude."

He blinked, once, twice, and took a rather large sip of his now whiskey and water.

"There is nothing wrong with the way you look."

Eyebrow raised, she countered with, "Then why stare at me with so much…disdain?" At that, she blinked and looked away from him, clearly embarrassed.

"It is not disdain."

Draco could see that she was physically restraining herself and was only about five seconds away from stomping her peep toe-clad foot in a miniature tantrum. Instead, her hand came up and fingered her cross, a sure sign she was nervous. Suddenly, she let go of the necklace, her arm coming down to her side, and sighed.

"Fine." She sighed again and glanced over her shoulder at her friends, as if deciding whether or not to return to them. Draco continued to stare at her, uninterested in her friends or anyone else in the bar.

"You know what?" She set her glass down on the table and opened her purse up. As she dug around in it, she continued. "It's been a long day. I am tired. I am tired of mixed messages, fake compassion, and sadness. I'm going home."

Draco watched as she tossed a ten pound note on the table, not totally understanding what was happening.

"Goodnight, Draco."

He glanced up at her, but she had already turned away. He had spent too long staring at that bloody note on the table, the queen's face unblinking.

Draco was sitting in the exact same position as he had been when Hermione had walked up, but his mind was racing out the door after her. She was leaving? She never left without him. What did he do? What should he do? Why was she angry? Mixed messages? Sadness?

And without asking for it, his long-time companion Loneliness crept in his heart. Not yet! He tried to push the bastard out, but the old codger just laughed ruthlessly and said he saw an early vacancy. Fear began to grip at Draco, for Hermione was his fix and his escape, his way to make it through the week, and enough of a reminder of what could be available, if only he was a better person. He deserved the pain, and sometimes, he wished he deserved the tenderness.

He squashed the fear with bitterness. He had no hold on her. There were no commitments, no contracts. He was just dependent on her strange want to be with him, a want that Draco truly did not understand but used to meet his own bizarre needs.

Merlin, he had needed her tonight. Seeing her as the person she was every day, he had been eager for their time alone, even their time alone in the bar, when she just talked and he listened. And after his day, with a depressed mother and his father's memory yelling at him through the paperwork, he wanted something real and something good to hold onto.

And so, his emotions tossed him around like a cursed broomstick, up and down, back and forth. Landing on neediness, Draco knew he had to go after her. Without another thought, without noticing Potter making his way toward him, Draco threw back the rest of his watered-down whiskey, grimacing slightly, and tossed some of his own Muggle money on the table. He took off out the door, breaking into a jog once he hit the sidewalk. Hermione always walked to an apparition point. She believed in rules and order, and Draco was sure he was her only deviation from the guidelines she had laid out for herself.

He trotted, brushing past people, murmuring his excuses and terse apologies as he went, even though he was not truly sorry. He needed to get to her. If she Apparated, if she was gone, he would lose her. For tonight. Forever, possibly. Goodnight had sounded a lot like goodbye. He was not ready to lose her, and he would do whatever he needed to do to keep her for just a bit longer.

Draco caught sight of her curly head as she began to turn down another street, the ponytail bouncing as she walked quickly. Shit. He only had another fifteen seconds, at the most, to get to her. He broke into a run, foregoing all the earlier "Pardon me" and "I apologize" utterances. He had no time. Literally. Every breath he took needed to be used to get to her, not wasted on inane civilities.

Just as she was nearing the abandoned alleyway, he caught up to her, and as she began turning, he grabbed her, dragged along for the ride. Draco wasn't sure why he grabbed her instead of saying her name, and it didn't matter. He was with her. He had a brief thought in the seconds that it took to Apparate: he hoped wherever she was going, the wards allowed him in.

* * *

Surprise did not even begin to describe Hermione's reaction at seeing a noticeably disheveled Draco Malfoy on the floor of her flat. She knew as soon as she Apparated that she had unwillingly brought along someone else. Obviously, her first reaction was of fear, and she had her wand out and in his face faster than he could begin to take in his surroundings.

Even when she realized who it was, she did not lower her wand. Her adrenaline was still racing and the fear was still pounding in her heart, so although she backed away from him slightly, she kept it pointed at him.

"What the fuck was that about, Malfoy?"

His surname was out of her mouth before she could think. He winced, even while beginning to smirk at her foul language. Foul words left over from a foul time. She couldn't remember when she stopped fussing at Ron about his swearing, but it was probably around the time that she took it up herself. It was an outlet, like smoking or drinking, and it helped relieve some tension in a stressful time. She had weaned herself from the naughty language, for the most part, but when drunk or anxious, it came out in full force.

"Take that bloody smirk off your face. You scared the shit out of me! And you're in my fucking flat, without being invited. Was 'goodnight' not a clear enough message for you?"

The smirk disappeared, but in its place appeared a cool mask of annoyance. Good. She would rather see that than indifference, as if he had done nothing wrong.

"It was unintentional, I assure you." His voice was cool, but smooth, and she knew he was attempting to placate her, which only further fueled her anger. Hermione's feathers were ruffled, and not much was going to soothe them, not Draco's assurances nor his velvety voice.

"You, assure me?" She took her left hand, still holding her clutch, and placed it over her chest, in mock apology. "Oh, well then, what was I thinking? How unforgivably rude of me to behave in such a boorish manner. Do forgive me."

"You're for—"

"Screw you, Malfoy," Hermione spat out. "Need a refresher on sarcasm?"

She saw his jaw tighten, fractionally, annoyance beginning to turn into anger.

"What I need is for you to calm down."

"Malfoy, I'll be calm when you are out of my fucking flat!" Her voice was harsh and bitter, but it in no way matched how she felt. She was shaking; confrontation always brought out that wonderful feature in her. She despised arguing and typically avoided situations like this. But she was thrown off-guard, felt threatened in her own space, so there was no backing down. At least, until her wand shook right out of her hand or she burst into tears. Hermione wasn't sure which would happen first. But she prayed neither would happen until Draco was gone.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" she asked innocently, her eyes still hard but wet with unshed tears. She knew exactly what he wanted her stop doing. But there was no way she was stopping. Not when she needed him to leave, and leave fast, before she broke down in a tidal wave of tears and emotions. He wasn't supposed to be here. This was her home. The place where she could escape, without any reminders of him. Henceforth, every time she came home, she would see him standing there in the middle of her living room, looking just like he belonged there.

He said nothing but instead shifted his weight onto one leg, leaning slightly to the left, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Stop _what_, Mal-foy?" She drew out his name, and again, there was a miniscule tick in his jaw. Bingo.

"Stop calling you 'Malfoy'?" She sniffed haughtily. "I think not. You'll either deal with it or you'll leave."

To her surprise, he didn't engage in the latter, as she had expected. It had been the one thing he had spoken with her about when she first began frequenting his table at the bar. Instinctively, or unconsciously, she had called him Malfoy, even when he had called her Hermione. He had immediately demanded that she only address him by his first name. Before she could get more than a "But why" out of her mouth, he had simply said, "That name carries reminders and memories more unpleasant than you can imagine."

She had never brought up the fact that other people—his former friends, his work colleagues, his employees—addressed him as such nor why he didn't just change his name. She'd just silently acquiesced to his request and had never, until these last minutes, called him by his last name. Hermione wondered why he was still standing there, staring at her with such an unreadable expression. Despite the rigid manner in which he held himself, Draco looked tired. His expression may have been unreadable, but his eyes looked weary, burdened even. Much like she felt. And suddenly, as quickly as her temper had flared, it died away.

Hermione dropped her wand hand by her side and let her shoulders slump forward, and she knew she looked frumpy and worn down. She did not care.

In a much quieter voice, all signs of hostility gone, she said, "Please, Draco. Just go."

She walked past him, purposely moving around him so that she would not touch him. She moved toward her kitchen and threw her wand and clutch on the table, pulling open the fridge, staring blankly at the contents. Milk or juice?

"What is wrong with you tonight?" She glanced up sharply, surprised to not only see Draco but to hear him sound so…concerned.

She sighed, grabbing the milk before shutting the fridge door.

"I thought I already said I was tired."

"Tired of what?"

Her grip tightened on the glass she had removed from the cupboard, wishing he would just leave so she could cry and rant…and later dream that he was there to comfort her. Perhaps, if she said nothing, just pretended he wasn't there, he would leave. She stayed silent, and he stayed stationary. Hermione breathed in through her nose.

"I'm just tired. It's been a long week. Can we just drop it already and continue to our respective homes, as in you returning to yours?"

In typical Draco fashion, he ignored what he did not want to hear and focused on what he wanted.

"Hermione, it's Friday. You've worked all week, and in that week, you've worked harder than most people do in a month. Of course you are tired. There's something else."

Of course there was something else! That something else was standing right in front of her, driving her to distraction. Knowing he wouldn't leave until she came up with something, she attempted honesty.

"Work has been difficult this week. You know the accidents we always see around World Cup time. Brings out the loonies. But today has been especially difficult. I am tired of pretending to like people who so obviously don't care about me, just so I can pry open their pocketbooks. It makes me feel…dirty. And I am tired of being brave for those who don't know how be, when all I want to do is cry because I can't fix them. I feel like I spend a good deal of my time play-acting, and today was particularly difficult. And then to come out and see you and think about what we…are…" She trailed off, knowing what she wanted to say but torn between not wanting to say it and being unsure if she should say it.

Draco just stared at her, as he always did, but this time, his eyes were wide, and he was blinking, as if trying to adjust her in his vision. It did not look particularly out of the ordinary, but it was a bit strange; it was not his normal state of staring.

It didn't appear as if he was going to speak; perhaps he knew she was not done. And so, she finished her thoughts, without grace or forethought as to how they would sound or come across.

"I just seemed overly…aware today. Of what we have, of what we are doing. And how I act; that maybe that's not me. Maybe that's who you want, but I want more, and I won't demand it or ask for it or even beg for it, but I can't pretend to be OK with what we are."

Inwardly, Hermione cringed. Fuck, that was eloquence at its finest. She had been facing him while she spoke, though looking directly over his shoulder at a spot on the wall that needed to be cleaned. She couldn't look at his face, and when she was done, she turned back to her milk and poured herself a glass, milk splashing up the sides of the glass and onto the countertop, her hands shaking even more violently now. Hermione wanted to bang her head against the refrigerator door but settled for holding the glass with two hands and pouring the white liquid down her throat.

Mr. Strong and Silent still had not spoken, and now, more than ever, she wished he was just a tad bit more verbose. She worked up the nerve to look him the face and wished she hadn't. There was no disgust or resentment. No irritation or anger. Nothing…except mild surprise. And for some reason, that bothered her more than she expected. Pity or fury was one thing. Apathy was quite another.

With tears filling her eyes, she quickly moved to leave the room, stumbling as her pinched feet came alive after being still for too long. This time she brushed by him, her shoulder colliding with his chest, but she kept her head down and moved around him, anxious to get into her bedroom and sink against the closed door.

But she made it no farther than about three feet past the silent man when she felt his fingers curl around her wrist.

"Wait."

Hermione didn't move, didn't turn, her arm still outstretched where he had grabbed it as she walked away. Instead she held her breath. She felt a sense of déjà vu wrap around her, causing goose pimples to break out all over her skin, and she shivered involuntarily. Was history repeating itself? Would she help it along?

The long pause stretched out, Draco drawing no closer to her and she remaining stationary, feeling his cool fingers burn into her arm. Suddenly, it was as if her mouth had become a separate entity, entirely removed from her body. Hermione tried to control it, but she could not. She felt the word forming in her mouth and wanted to grab her hand from Draco's grasp and use it, along with her other hand, to clamp over her mouth, to push the word back in.

But it couldn't be stopped, not by her hands, her mind, or her heart.

"Why?"

Hermione closed her eyes, waiting as he requested. What she did not expect was for him to speak. His voice was unsteady with doubt, though he _did_ sound eloquent, like he had practised this for some time.

"Because…because..." He paused. "Hermione, you are so good. You have given my sad life so much more than it has ever deserved, and you have gifted me more than I ever expected. You bring beauty to my existence, the ugliness that it is, and though I will never have it completely, nor should I, every so often, I just want to hold what is so much better than me. And that's you. That is why I don't ask for more: it would be unfair for me ask for more than I deserve. Not that I deserve to have any of you."

Breathe, breathe. Hermione forced herself to expel the breath she was holding and take another one and repeat the motion again, and again. She pressed her hand up to her heart, pushing it hard against her chest, trying to calm the rapid thumping that was threatening to beat right out of her chest. Breathe, breathe.

There were no words to adequately describe her feelings—wild, dizzying, a torrent. She moved from one extreme to the other, wanting to cry and wanting to laugh, wanting to vomit and wanting to giddily twirl in circles. She wasn't exactly sure what Draco's little speech meant, but she was sure of one thing: indifference did not describe his feelings.

Hand still on her chest, Hermione turned to face the once again silent man. He was still staring, but this time, Hermione detected in his face the uncertainty that had been in his voice. She lowered her hand from her chest and, twisting the hand held captive in his, captured his hand with both of hers.

"Draco, just tell me what you want," she asked softly, her voice full of desperation.

Hermione felt naked asking such a personal question, one whose answer could wound her already tender heart. But it needed to be asked. They were at a crossroads, and the two needed to move—whether it was together or not, movement needed to occur. Later, she would notice that she didn't have time to hold her breath or say a small prayer or wait in anticipation. Draco spoke without doubt or hesitation.

"All I truly want is what is standing before me."

A small sob escaped her lips without her even knowing, but she didn't move. She only grasped his hand tighter, unsure of what to do next.

"Then why don't you take it?"

"Because you deserve—"

"Don't say it. You don't get a say in my worth and what I do or don't deserve. Life would be very lonely and depressing, not to mention quite dull, for most of us if we only received what we deserved." While she was talking, he had looked away from her, his eyes finding some invisible spot to attend to, much like she had done minutes earlier.

"Your worth isn't measured by your name, Draco. It's measured by your actions, by your deeds, and there are many great ones that are yours to claim."

His gaze was still focused away from her, so she dropped his hand, and touched his face gently, guiding it to meet her eyes. She was scared, but apparently he was more frightened than she.

But Hermione asked again, "Won't you take what you want?"

"I don't know how."

The uncertainty in his voice almost broke her heart, but at the same time, Hermione gave a small smile. She was unsure, too. She was nervous, too. There was no book on love or relationships that was custom-made for them. They would be floundering. But she and Draco would be stumbling along the way together, and that's what they had to start with.

She brought her other hand up to his face, cupping his cheeks in her palms. Never had she seen his face so openly expressive. He looked so lost. Maybe they could find the way, hand in hand.

"How about you start by staying?"

Draco leaned forward, mimicking her actions, his thumbs resting on her cheeks as he pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath and Hermione counted as he held it in.

One…two…three…four…five. Exhale.

He opened his eyes, lifted his head off hers, and Hermione searched his face for…something. Then it came in the form of a brilliant smile, one that Hermione had never seen, and it changed his entire demeanor, so much that he looked years younger and lifetimes happier.

Then he spoke, as if needing to reinforce her thoughts and statements by saying them himself.

"I think…I think we should stay…together."

And Hermione sighed in happiness, hearing the one word she had been dreaming of, wishing for, for so long: stay.


End file.
